


regina gloriana

by SearchingforSerendipity



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, 16th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 15:36:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7851001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SearchingforSerendipity/pseuds/SearchingforSerendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Spanish Armada sinks. The Queen laughs, victorious, and her laughter is thin as pale gold, a little mad, a little musical.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Elizabeth Tudor, daughter of a witch and a living god with a York's godless legacy. Some songs are not meant to be remembered. <em></em></em></p>
            </blockquote>





	regina gloriana

 

 

Generally speaking, there were few monarchs without a tale to their name. In ancient times the Greeks and Romans used to give godly parents to their founders, to make power greater and dynasties sturdier. In those days of strife even a few years of reigning were deserving of a song or two, some brash ditty of the people.

The Queen ruled longer than anyone could remember. There were many songs about her.

 _She is the fresh city of London made flesh_ , one fiddler rhymes, rather badly. _Gold her hair, gold her crown, golden the scepter in her hands, oh her white hands. No one can tame Bess, Bess_ _of the Thames. Oh no one can tame our Betsey, Betsey of our land._

A young lady, fashioning herself musical and currying favor in court, coins the song The White Crown: _Angels on high, looking down on us, gave us a gift of measureless gold. 'Tis the queen of the white crown, white crown. An English Rose like none other, crowned in white, white gold. Tis the queen our salvation, our jubilation, the queen of the white crown._

An old man, drunk on wine and less savory things, staggers by the running river, crooning with every staggering step. He might have been handsome once, bold and in love with a princess, but now he was old and his voice broke often.

_Gloriana! Gloriana! Glad child of heathen Anna, Great Gloriana God's own champion. Glory to thy name forevermore. Gloriana! The sea knows thy name, knows thy will. Queen over land and sea and thy land over the sea! Regina Gloriana!_

The river is dark and cold. The drunk falls, melody swallowed in great bubbles. Some songs are not safe for men to sing at night by the water.

 

  
William Shakespeare writes of a mad prince from dark, faraway Denmark, a madder girl who sings ditties and sleeps her way down the river. The Queen laughs when she hears of the play.

Mad singing girls don't sink, but nobody told Shakeaspere that.

 

  
In the beggining she had tried to keep off her mother's curses. Not her charms, for those were benevolent and warmed her heart ( _make Elizabeth's hair Tudor bright let her eyes be sharp her mind sharper protect my child when i am gone--_ ). She remembered Mary as she had been the sullen girl with the soft voice that had once taken care of her so well. They had prayed together, once. It brought her little joy to see her struggling to bring forth a child, to witness her rages and despairs.

But Mary was too fond of witch-fires, smoke that rose over the city for days without end. Elizabeth spent more and more time by the waterline and only went to church when she had to. That was not where her prayers were heard.

 

One queen gave rise to another Queen. Bloody red tried to stain unblemished white and failed. 

Mary was always more princess than monarch. 

 

Francis Drake was pirate scum, a thief and a murderer and a ruffian of the ocean. The Queen welcomed him into her court and service and bed with open arms, grasping arms. His skin tasted of salt, but not as much as hers. 

 _Do you swim often at sea, Your Magesty?_ he asked her one long hot night. 

 _The sea swims often with me_ , _pirate,_  she corrects. 

 _Do you sing often at sea, Elizabeth?_ he asks on his last night on shore, for he was a wily man, and keen eyed.

And Elizabeth Regina responds, smilin :  _The sea sings often with me, sir._

She makes him a knight and gives him leave to rove the unending blue. She says it like it is her domain to rule and reign over. Sir Francis Drake does not doubt it. 

 

 

The Queen herself had songs of her own making, it was said. Long did she like to walk by the shore, not of her river but of the sea. The words were strange to common ears, low and wave-rumbling, falling and rising with the tide. Her hands skim over the foam, white on white. She dresses in white as well, a virginal color. Like the roses of York whose lady gave her name.

Her songs are lost but for the sea, who remembers her fondly, and the seagulls, who call her words with pale wings. This is a song for history, the sort that no one writes down, the one that needs not rhyme. It is a chanting the sea echoes and a prayer the storm answers.

There are many songs about The Queen. Most of them mention the sea, the river, the glory of a victory an by the elements. Few choose to recall old Anne Boleyn, headless and godless. The tales of a river nymph in Elizabeth's blood are old, folktales at most, propaganda at worst.

The Spanish Armada sinks. The Queen laughs, victorious, and her laughter is thin as pale gold, a little mad, a little musical.

 

 

 _Glory to thy name, Glory forevermore,_ the seagulls cry out, the waves, the skyline. _Thy father a god, thy mother a witch. Greatness your blood, glory your legacy._

_Gloriana! The sea knows thy name, knows thy will. Regina Gloriana!_


End file.
